


Being Gestalt

by SiderealV



Series: Gestalt [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:42:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiderealV/pseuds/SiderealV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short drabbles and snippets relating to Prowl and the Constructicons from the GESTALT series verse, in no particular order. Big time gap between original fic and snippets with much yet unexplained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Late Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mellorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellorine/gifts).



Prowl would want to be woken up; this Scavenger knew instinctively.

He couldn’t count the number of late nights the Autobot had spent in his office over the past deca-cycle, poring over every angle of casework, losing himself in the minutiae of his ongoing investigation. On some level, Scavenger had to assume, it must be comforting. Soothing, no, but regular– normal. Prowl did like his routines. When life and all it’s unpredictability wore down on the orderly mech, he would retreat into his work, burying himself in data and hard facts in what could only be an attempt to regain said normalcy.

Scavenger couldn’t guess at what had caused the other to all but barricade himself in his office this time, but Prowl had been running himself ragged and it was finally starting to catch up to him. When these moods took him, the mech neglected himself even more than usual, forgetting to refuel and recharge until he’d pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion. Datapad still in hand, he now sat slumped against the backrest of his chair with drooping door wings and a stern look on his face even in sleep. It was actually pretty cute. The constructicon worried just the same.

Prowl was a deep sleeper, but moving him was out of the question; he’d wake up, do a bit of scowling and get right back to work, so Scavenger settled for the next best thing.

Cluttered tablets were stacked in order, overhead lights dimmed to their lowest setting. A warming cube with Prowl’s favorite blend of energon was placed within reach, a lure too tempting for even the stubborn mech to resist upon waking. He carefully extracted the datapad from the other’s grip, laying it in front of him on the desk. Prowl’s favorite stylus–retrieved from the floor where it had fallen–was placed neatly on top.

He lingered for a moment when the job was done, surveying his handiwork. Not much, but it would have to do. A careful servo settles on of Prowl’s door wing, thumb swirling in an affectionate gesture, before he takes his leave. Tomorrow he’ll see if he can’t get Prowl home for some proper rest.


	2. The Gift

Prowl stared ahead resolutely as he strode past the window display, refusing to look. It was a cheap little shop, peddling pointless, gaudy trinkets to tourists and simpletons alike. He couldn’t remember if it had always been there, but ever since he’d seen the thing on his way to work two deca-cycles ago, it had been a struggle not to take notice.

This in and of itself was an irritation. Under ordinary circumstances, Prowl couldn’t possibly care less about such tripe. Poorly constructed scrap; mass-produced, over-done with garish colors and obnoxious metallic paint finishes. Decorative junk with no purpose but to collect dust and exist as an eyesore to anyone with sense in his head.

It was just the sort of thing Scavenger would like.

The red and gold one on the lower left side of the display would be the optimal choice. He didn’t have to look to know it was still there– who in his right mind would buy such a thing? Prowl wrinkled his nose. Not him, certainly. Even if he had the inclination (which he didn’t), the constructicon had more than enough garbage ferreted away in that den of his; he last thing he needed was more junk.

Gaze fixed forward, he passed the shop without so much as a sideward glance. Scavenger’s happiness was no concern of his.

——-

Two more deca-cycles of increasing agitation passed before he succumbed; a third before he could bring himself to take it out of the drawer. He’d thrown it there once he’d gotten home and realized what he’d done.

The figure sat on his nightstand now, offensively gaudy, a testament to his moment of weakness. Prowl glared at it balefully. What was he thinking? What was he supposed to do with this? Certainly not give it to Scavenger; such a gift would only encourage his– his infatuation. He couldn’t have that. In fact, Prowl could only blame the decepticon’s muddling in his spark for it’s presence in his room to begin with. Why else would he have bought the blasted thing? He’d half a mind to demand the constructicon return it himself for his trouble. He should. It’d serve him right. His lips pursed, brow furrowed in self-righteous annoyance.

He’d let it be… for now.

——-

“That’s new.”

Of course Scavenger would notice right away. Of course he would feel the need to comment. Predictable. Prowl didn’t look up from his datapad, a door wing flicking in irritation. “Just some scrap I haven’t gotten around to incinerating yet.”

“Oh….” _{{-interest-}}_

It was all he could do not to roll his optics at the flicker of curiosity that rippled through the sparkbond. He glanced at the constructicon, who stood peering through the berthroom door at the new addition to Prowl’s otherwise Spartan living space. Any piece of kitsch from that junk shop would have caught his eye, of course, but the red one Prowl _knew_ would capture his attention. He supposed there was no point in having it go to waste…

“Take it if you want it.” He spoke into his datapad, not looking at the other. He could feel the constructicon’s surprise.

“You sure, boss?”

“It’s just trash.”

He almost regretted it. Scavenger’s barely repressed delight blossomed in his spark with a warmth that should have been annoying, but was somehow anything but. He said nothing as the other mech claimed his prize, or as he tucked it carefully into his over-crowded subspace.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t have to look up to know that Scavenger was smiling. So pleased over a hunk of gilded scrap… For his own part, Prowl was simply glad to be rid of the thing. The relief in his spark was limited to the reclamation of his nightstand. Nothing more.

“Mm.”


	3. Assumptions

Prowl didn't do "happy."

Intense, quick to anger, and admittedly brilliant, his severe reputation preceded him without counterpoint; mirth was not a quality anyone would ascribe to the Autobot, regardless of what badge they wore. In fact, those who’d worked with the mech on a regular basis might further admit that even fleeting happiness seemed beyond him. The times when Prowl’s anger settled down to simmer just beneath the surface might constitute a good mood, if one was feeling particularly generous, but that was about as good as it got. 

Except that wasn’t entirely true. Oh, it was fair enough to say that Prowl was never happy in the traditional sense. On the whole, he was about as irritable, impossible to please, and all-around short-tempered as they came. Speaking as a mech who was fresh off a 4 million year tour in the Decepticon war machine, it was actually impressive; when it came to being disappointed in everyone and everything around him at a given moment, Prowl could give Megatron a run for his money. 

It was _easy_ to assume that the Autobot existed in a state of perpetual anger that only fluctuated in its intensity; for a ‘bot who’s m.o. was “calculating and cold,” Prowl’s temper ran fiery hot. Scavenger had been the target of that anger more times than he could count. He’d seen the smaller mech hurl furniture across the room in a rage, reallocate mechs who’d crossed him to high-risk outposts, and, well… his spark housing would bear the scars of that night for the rest of his natural life. So he wasn’t ever really what most mechs would consider “happy, ” no. 

But all things were relative, and the dour Autobot was no exception. You’d never know it by looking at him, and even with the gestalt link it was difficult to pick up the subtle variations in his mood, but Scavenger knew better than anyone–literally, anyone–that there was more to him than meets the eye. Happiness? No. It was more subtle than that. Satisfaction. Pride. Amusement. Sometimes, rarely, contentment. Happiness was almost too simple for someone as complex as Prowl. At least that’s what he figured. 

Prowl had a lot going on in there. In his head– his spark. And he WAS angry; an endless parade of loss, disillusionment, and being let down had seen to that. He’d seen the other’s memories, both as Devastator and through spark-merge, and the more he saw, the more he understood. Even if none of them had had much to be happy about over the last four million years, at least they had each other. _Everyone_ had someone– someone or something that made it all worth it, or at least kept you distracted enough from the day-to-day that you stayed sane. 

Prowl didn’t have that. Not anymore… Besides the gestalt, anyway. Scavenger didn’t know the details, not with how infrequently they joined, but he knew the result. Prowl expected everyone to let him down because everyone had let him down. He didn’t have anyone but the allies he kept at arm’s length, living in self-imposed isolation for his own good. He didn’t have anything to comfort him but countless millennia of schemes and machinations (ostensibly for the greater good, but really, who could say?), all promising for a big payout if everything went according to plan. If he were the brainiac type, Scavenger might even venture to guess that the mech had developed something of a complex over the whole affair. 

He tried to remember that when the going was rough. This knowledge didn’t stop the anger from burning in his spark, or lessen the sting of the other's hatred, but it did make it easier to bear. Prowl was hurting too, in his own way. He’d never admit it, of course… maybe not even to himself. But it was there just the same. His pain–like his joy–was a subtle thing; complex. Repressed. Invisible. To most, anyway. Most mechs would never know there was anything to him beyond anger. Scavenger knew better. 


End file.
